LA JEUNESSE ET LA MORT
I
Unto her fragrant face and hair,—
As some wild-bee unto a rose,
That blooms in splendid beauty there
Within the South,—my longing goes:
My longing, that is overfain
To call her mine, but all in vain;
Since jealous Death, as each one knows,
Is guardian of La belle Heléne;
Of her whose face is very fair—
To my despair,
Ah, belle Heléne.
II
The sweetness of her face suggests
The sensuous scented Jacqueminots;
Magnolia blooms her throat and breasts;
Her hands, long lilies in repose:
Fair flowers all without a stain,
That grow for Death to pluck again,
Within that garden's radiant close.
The body of La belle Heléne;
The garden glad that she suggests,—
That Death invests,
Ah, belle Heléne.
III
God had been kinder to me,—when
He dipped His hands in fires and snows
And made you like a flower to ken,
A flower that in Earth's garden grows,—
Had He, for pleasure or for pain,
Instead of Death in that domain,
Made Love the gardener to that rose,
Your loveliness, O belle Heléne!
God had been kinder to me then—
Me of all men,
Ah, belle Heléne.
